


Rise And Rise Again

by liptonrm



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Apocalypse, Family Issues, Female Character of Color, Fix-It, Gen, Sisters, Team as Family, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liptonrm/pseuds/liptonrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is on the brink of Apocalypse and things have never been more bleak. Abbie Mills is stuck in Purgatory, stalked by the demon that has hounded her life, Ichabod Crane is buried in a grave dug for him by his own son, Frank Irving is locked in a cell for the crime of protecting his family, and Jenny Mills is laying on the side of the road, left for dead.</p><p>The world is on the precipice and the bad guys are winning.</p><p>In order to save themselves, and everyone else, the Watchers and Team Apocalypse will have to stand up and find their way back to Sleepy Hollow and back to each other. They're the only hope the world has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A post season one AU. Season two spoilers need not apply.

Jenny dropped silently through a hole in the world. Everything was black around her, dark and deep.

She wasn't afraid. She'd been fighting monsters her entire life.

Sparks floated across her vision, lazy, like fireflies on a hot summer night. She could remember chasing them as a child, laughing and running in the yard. Abbie showed her how to catch them, to speak softly to them, and then let them go. Abbie was always teaching her things, showing her the best ways. Until she didn't anymore.

Jenny tried to catch them now. Her hands moved slowly, languid, like they didn't want to move at all. The sparks shied away from her touch, so she brought all of her focus to bear and grabbed one, locked it in the cage of her fingers.

Light flashed across her eyes. She couldn't breathe. A clazon rang in her ear, shrill, annoying. She could just barely hear voices shouting underneath the wail. “She's coding! Come on, come on, don't do this!” Then a pop, a sound as loud as a gunshot.

She gasped and she was in the dark place again. It was safe there, comforting, and Jenny knew that if she stayed there she'd never leave.

Abbie needed her. She'd only just gotten her sister back. She wasn't going to lose her again.

She grabbed at the lights but they streaked away from her, teased her, danced close and then darted away again. The faster she moved the faster they danced, whirling around her, a vortex of light.

She stopped, suddenly, limbs slack like a stringless marionette. The firefly lights stopped as well. They hung there, frozen, for a long breath of time. Then she dropped, falling without gravity, away from the lights, deep, deep into dark waters. She felt herself scream but no noise came out. Everything was silent in her grave.

And then it stopped. She stopped. There was nothing, no feeling, no light, not even stillness. Just, nothing.

Slowly, a deep drum beat reverberated through her. Then it beat again, and again. She jerked and suck in a sudden, desperate breath. Light burst around her, bright and harsh. She wanted to scream. The world slowly came into focus, blurred figures sharpening with every blink of her eyes. Three people sat at a low table, a woman and two children. They were talking softly, voices to low to hear, passing crayons between them. Jenny felt her feet move, taking her closer to them.

She gasped. It was her sister, carefully drawing a familiar demon in white on a thick piece of black construction paper. Jenny tried to speak, to touch, to hug her sister close.

Abbie looked up, her dark eyes bored into Jenny, staring into her soul. “You have to wake up,” her sister said. “You have to fix what we've broken.”

The room shook around them, books falling off of shelves and glass frames shattering on the floor. “Go! Now!” Abbie shouted, standing and running to the shaking door, throwing her weight against it. The youngest girl went with her, helping however she could. 

The oldest girl stood in front of Jenny, her face shockingly familiar. She'd know her sister anywhere, at any age. “Go home. They need you,” she said and between one blink and the next she surged forward and pushed, stronger than she looked, and Jenny fell backwards.

Jenny went through the wall and she didn't stop, falling, falling through blood and flesh, through tree and leaf, through dirt and muck. She fell straight into her own body, the beep of a heart monitor beside her head, the rough feel of hospital sheets around her. Her body screamed at her, new aches and bruises shattering up her nerves.

She was awake, alive and her sister was trapped somewhere else, where the monsters lurked. She had to save her. She had to save herself.

~~~


	2. Chapter 2

Ichabod Crane's new life began in a grave. He was determined that it would not end in one. At least, not yet.

Ichabod had never dreamed of peace. Even as a child he had indulged in martial games, leading his lead soldiers in ordered phalanxes to defeat the Persian hoards. He was Alexander and Charlemagne, Caesar and Henry V. His father encouraged him in his studies but there wasn't a childhood day that went by that didn't find him hidden in a closet, building a model catapult or swashbuckling out on the lawn with the gardener's boy.

He had always yearned for adventure. And then he had found more of it than he could have ever, ever desired.

He thought about peace, now, laying in the grave prepared for him by his own son, the child he never knew but had always wanted, deep in his heart.

He and Katrina had never lived a peaceful life, had never had the chance to know each other in a world not at war. He wondered now, finally, if they ever would. The future was so much stranger, and so much more familiar, than he ever imagined it would be.

Looking back over his life, a biographer could find the hand of Fate guiding him, directing him, molding him into the person he was meant to be, a Witness of the Apocalypse. But was it truly Fate? If he had died on that battlefield two hundred and more years before he would have simply been another dead soldier who left behind a widow and an unborn child. But Katrina had taken Fate into her own hands, had woven a new future for all of them, and had paid dearly for that hubris. They had all paid.

Fate may have set him on this path, but his choices had directed his steps. There was no fate except the one he made for himself. And he would not admit defeat and let the world pay the price.

He saw, in his mind's eye, Lt. Mills, Abbie, locked in Purgatory, yelling at him to get up, to move, to dig himself out of this new grave and get back to work. He would not abandon her. They would both, together, create a new future.

He smelled it then, the abrasive scent of saltpeter. He pounded on the coffin wood, dirt falling all around him. He carefully licked his dirty finger, seeing the disgusted moue of Abbie's mouth as he did so. He grinned. He may not have to dig himself out after all.

Benjamin Franklin had been a horse's ass and Ichabod's erstwhile apprenticeship to the man had been one of the most frustrating periods of his life, but he had learned many things about electricity. Specifically its more explosive properties. He could see Franklin in his memory, that impish look on his face, as he conducted an electrical spark onto a small heap of black powder; the maniacal way he laughed afterwards, covered in ash, at the destruction he had wreaked. 

Ichabod scrabbled around and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Oh the way Franklin would have crowed to see this future, the wonders he had inspired.

It was the work of a few moments to prepare his life-saving experiment. He was about to make the connection from battery to explosive, when he heard the thump of a shovel on the dirt above him.

“Move back!” He shouted. “Get away!” But in his haste to warn his putative savior his hand slipped, connecting metal to soil, and the very earth exploded around him.

He didn't die. The explosion rang in his ears as he weakly flailed, trying to pull himself up out of the wreck. A sure hand reached down, grabbed his arm and pulled, a great effort that catapulted Ichabod up and out, the force propeling both people backwards until they both lay prostrate on the ground, under the open sky.

Ichabod rolled over with a groan. Beside him lay Cynthia Irving, breath heaving, eyes closed. She blinked her eyes open and as their gazes caught sudden, hysterical laughter burst from both of their chests. Life deserved a little celebration.

The moment passed and Mrs. Irving pushed herself to her feet. She bent over him and offered him her hand, assistance which he gratefully accepted.

“Not that I don't appreciate your appearance,” Ichabod said as he attempted to brush himself off, regardless of the futility of the gesture, “but how did you find me?”

Mrs. Irving regarded him, her eyes a silent weight. “Macey had a dream,” she said after a moment's hesitation. “She said we needed you.”

Ichabod nodded, sorrow crossing his face at the thought of that young girl once more pulled into this danger. He well knew that once twinned Destiny and Fate entered one's life they would never more depart.

He bowed to her, the picture of respect and _politesse_ even when covered in grave dirt. “Well then, madam, please lead the way.”

Mrs. Irving tilted her head, a slight, amused smile crossing her face. She shouldered the shovel she had hardly needed to use, and led them out of the wilderness.


	3. Chapter 3

Macey Irving breathed in the scent of hundreds of years of history. Dust motes floated on the air, the sun shining in pillars down through the archive's cluttered space. It looked just the same as in her dreams.

In her nightmares it looked worse, shrouded in shadows, full of screams. Her hands clenched on the arms of her chair, a shudder ran up her spine. She could still feel Ancitif in her mouth, her mind, laughing and poking and destroying everything around her.

She had experience with destruction. It had shaped her whole life.

She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. Whatever. There were much bigger things to worry about.

She rolled out onto the main floor. Her hands skimmed over stacked books, her eyes glanced over weapons piled high by the walls. She knew things about this place that she shouldn't, that she had no way of knowing, but she did. It had started with that demon and a bright light that swept everything away, but it had continued in her dreams, disjointed things that didn't make any sense. But they all centered around familiar faces; Lt. Mills and Ichabod Crane, her dad and her mom and Jenny, the only other person in the world who knew what it felt like to be burned from the inside out.

She'd dreamed last night and known that what she'd seen was real, was true. She'd seen a world shatter like glass, a demon on horseback and another with a firey sword. She'd seen a man buried alive and a woman trapped with the dead. She woke up terrified and sure.

She'd seen other things in her dream, flashes of fire and death, riots and disease, and she knew it was coming, it would all happen. Evil, real evil, alive and deadly, walked in the world and she had to do something. She couldn't let her world burn.

One of her teachers, a new guy with the sweat stains to show it, had tried to get her and her classmates interested in stories from thousands of years ago. They'd slogged through the Illiad, kids laughing in the rows as one kid after another had to read lines and lines of ancient poetry to the class. It had been boring, mostly, but she remembered Cassandra screaming into the sea, driven mad by a future she couldn't change, a future that no one believed.

Maybe what she did wouldn't matter, maybe she was helpless in a fight she couldn't win. But if she was going to die she'd go down like Cassandra, screaming to the last, warning everyone around her that they were well and truly fucked.

Macey picked up a book and started to read. She had a lot of work to do.

~~~

Frank Irving sat in a cell. He'd been stripped of everything he had, his clothes, his job, his life. He'd been reduced to this, a number, a disgraced cop waiting for trial, a killer. The officers, his former colleagues, his friends, stared at him with hard, flat eyes. The evidence added up and facts didn't lie. He'd done the unthinkable, he'd killed one of their own. He'd betrayed them.

He bore the weight of their gaze. He'd take the fall, he'd play this game. He hadn't made the move, broken Jones in half with his bare hands, but he might as well have. His play, his call, his responsibility. 

It didn't matter. He would've done that and so much worse to save his baby girl.

The heavy door banged open. Frank looked up at Nguyen and Browder, cuffs jangling in Nguyen's hands. 

“Get up,” Browder growled, the key turning in the cell, hinges screaming as it they opened. “Time to go to your new home.”

They moved him and cuffed him, strong, hard hands shoving him around, new bruises blossoming under the cotton jumpsuit. They were rough because they could be, because he deserved it.

The car was cramped because it was supposed to be, his arms shoved behind him, his feet shackled together. Nobody wanted a criminal to be comfortable. The air inside thrummed with tension, the officers upfront stolid and silent. A week ago he'd had lunch with Nguyen, laughed with her about some idiot arrest, some TV show they both loved. Now there was nothing, just a pair of steady shoulders and a duty to perform.

It could've gone worse. They could've kicked the shit out of him. Frank supposed they were on their best behavior.

They idled at a stoplight, the city bustling around them. Frank's world might be over but life went on. People drove and chatted, ran in and out of stores, walked their dogs down the street. It was nice, until it wasn't. A flash, a shadow, Frank wasn't sure what caught his eye, but he saw the man, the kid really--long stringy hair, shapeless tee--that walked up to the cafe, a backpack thrown over his shoulder. He sat down at a table, close to the street, close enough that Frank could see the faint zit scars on his cheeks. He put his bag on the table and flexed his hand around something still gripped in his fist.

He turned his head and stared right at Frank, a dark, empty smile on his face. Frank shouted and threw himself against the door, desperate to act. But it was too late.

Time slowed down. He saw the kid's fist tighten, his thumb descend. He saw Browder turn his face, eyes wide, hand on the door, a flash of color as Nguyen threw the car into park and reached for her gun. 

The bag exploded. Fire burst across the sidewalk, the road, into the building. Frank had just enough sense to brace himself on the floor as the car tipped over. The world spun and for just a moment Frank lost all sense of who or where he was.

When it all came back he found himself on the car's roof, heart pounding in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. He saw Browder hanging, still, in the seat belt, a shard of glass through his eye. Nguyen lay curled in the front, aware enough to unlatch her own belt, but her eyes were glassy and when she coughed blood came out.

The handcuff keys were there, dangling in his face, so Frank pulled themoff of Browder's belt with his teeth. He kicked at the spider-webbed window, force enough in his legs to break it wide open. He shimmied out and somehow got his battered body to contort enough to slip his bound arms down and around his legs and up to the front of his body. If he didn't dislocate his shoulder it was a near thing.

A moment later he stood in the burning street. There were bodies all around him, fire and death. Sirens cried in the distance, the shrill scream getting closer. He glanced at Nguyen, her body now still, and made a choice.

The world was ending and Frank Irving needed to be where he could do some good, not stuck in a prison cell, waiting for a trial that might never occur.

He turned and he ran.

~~~

A demon pounded on the door.

When Abbie had been young she and Jenny had shared a room. Sometimes, their mama had played a game with them. It was a special game, she'd said, something to learn, something to keep them safe. It could happen at any moment, eating dinner, watching TV, doing homework, their mama would scream, “Run, girls, run!” and they would hightail it to their room because Hell itself was chasing after them. 

They'd slam the door behind them and then push anything, everything, in front of it as a barricade. That's when their mama would attack the door, pounding and clawing and kicking, throwing herself at it like the devil in human form. Abbie could remember crying and crying, pushing onto that door with all her might, trying to keep her mother out; her mother, or whatever it was that chased her too.

The game only lasted a half hour, by the clock. Then it was time to come out. By then their mama would be down in front of the TV, and she'd smile at them, tell them she was proud of them. They'd done a good job. They hadn't let the evil in.

One time, though, in the middle of the pounding and screaming, things had gone quiet. Abbie could remember being there, her little body straining against the door, Jenny crying silent tears under the bed. Then their mama's voice had come from the other side of the door, calm and sweet. She'd told them it was okay, it was over, they just needed to open the door and everything would be fine.

So Abbie had. She'd looked at her little sister, hope shining in her face, and cracked the door open, just a smidge. She'd peeked out and seen her mama standing there, soft and sweet, until anger slashed across her face knife sharp, and she'd pushed the door out of Abbie's tiny hands. She'd screamed at them, told them no one was safe, no where. Yelled that they couldn't trust anyone, not even their own mama, and then she'd slammed the door shut, shoving a chair under the knob to keep it that way. They hadn't gotten any dinner that night.

She remembered that now, trapped in that little room with two girls she used to know, who used to be her and her baby sister. She knew that watchful fear on her own young face, had seen it in the mirror everyday. A demon was always waiting outside the door.

She wasn't that little girl anymore, though. And if her mama had taught her caution, had drilled fear into her bones, she had made herself brave and strong. She looked at those little girls and heard the demon's whisper in her head. Moloch wanted her, wanted all of her, especially the parts she kept hidden, safe and sound in this little room. If she didn't come out to him then he would come in to her, one way or another.

The girls looked at her when she told them, their eyes wide and so very, very scared. “I have to go,” she said, one hand on Abbie's hair, the other arm wrapped around Jenny's tiny shoulders. “I have to keep you safe.”

“But what about you?” her own voice asked her, smaller and thinner then she ever remembered it being.

“I can worry about me. You need to worry about each other.” She tried to smile at them, but even as the muscles flexed she knew they didn't believe it.

She knelt down and wrapped them into a hug. “Take care of each other,” she said, even though she knew they would.

She opened the door with tears drying on her neck, her cheeks. She didn't look back, didn't see their wide eyes, their hidden hope. She kept them safe in her memory, which is where they had always been.

The forest outside was deep and dark, not even starlight to break the gloom. Branches hung over her like a shroud. She closed the door behind her and it disappeared as if it had never really existed in the first place. She was alone with monsters in the dark.


End file.
